


big shot

by brophigenia



Series: k does the dreampack [3]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Dirty Talk, Feelings, Joseph Kavinsky is His Own Warning, Kinda, M/M, Mentions of Prokopenko, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Size Kink, Sort of Suicidal Ideation but not really, Spanking, sex tears, swan is british you can fucking fight me over it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 00:33:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15545676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: He feels the most normal when he’s with Swan, who doesn’t want to talk about dealing and organized crime andplans for the future.All Swan wants to do is get baked and get his fingers in K’s ass, fingering him leisurely, stretching him out with assured ease until he’s boneless and liquid heat inside, until there’s no pain when he sets K on his frankly monstrous cock.[Uhhhh, Swan is a dom top and K cries on it?]





	big shot

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, if you don't think Swan is gorgeous, Black, British, and chill as fuck then I don't know what to tell you. He is obviously all of those things. Also his accent is really low-rent unless he's dealing with his parents/professors, and then he's every inch the posh polished former Eton-schoolboy. These are my feelings. Have at them.

Swan is a rock.

Swan is a rock in the storm, so uncaring about _everything_ that it’s a stress reliever to be around him. Swan, whose idea of _chill out bro_ is hydroponic weed and Super Smash Bros and assfucking. Swan, the only person K lets fuck him anymore, who can get him in the mood for it with no effort at all, half-lidded eyes and pillow-soft mouth, cajoling British accent and rumbling bass voice.

He feels the most _normal_ when he’s with Swan, who doesn’t want to talk about dealing and organized crime and _plans for the future._ All Swan wants to do is get baked and get his fingers in K’s ass, fingering him leisurely, stretching him out with assured ease until he’s boneless and liquid heat inside, until there’s no pain when he sets K on his frankly monstrous cock.

“Gotchu dumb for it, baby,” he’ll murmur with those big hands _everywhere,_ lifting him up and bringing him back down with his biceps flexing and his abs tighter than steel, all of him _handsome_ and _calm._ He never gets out of breath, never gets overwhelmed. K sometimes thinks he doesn’t have any emotion except _indolence,_ but then Swan will get bloodlusty, spoiling for a fight, all _you wanna say that again, bruv?_ when the townie fuckers get fresh.

(Swan stays around for Skov, stays around to see what’ll happen. He’s here for the explosion, the inevitable end. He wants to _watch._ He’s more a god than K is, sometimes, benevolent and voyeuristic. He’s not here to change K, to save him, even if maybe he could. He’s here for the show, no matter how solicitous his hands are, how lush his kisses.)

“Go ahead and come, pet,” he’ll say, like K needs his _permission,_ but it works every fucking time, and then he’ll fuck into K’s ragdoll body until he’s coming too. He owes K no love and no compassion and no _tenderness._ He may owe him some pain, some viciousness, but that never comes out. There’s just Swan coming and then tugging his sweats back up, leaving K shivery and blown-out with nothing but a half-fond pat to his ass. Sometimes a muttered _there’s a good lad._

Because Swan doesn’t fucking care. He’s here because he got thrown out of Eton for, if the rumors are to be believed, alleged murder. Virginia is fucking _penance_ for him, Aglionby is nothing, K is an oddity for sure but that’s _it._ K is some braggadocious motherfucker he hangs around because he likes the smell of blood and likes the many and varied opportunities to fuck shit up that are par for the course when you’re part of the pack.

Swan is going to leave, going to get out and go back to London, show his teeth to all his old friends, graduate with top honors from Oxford and carry a gun beneath his sharply tailored Armani suit, be the king that K’s father wants _his_ son to be. Swan will be his own god; he has no need of lip service to one as mercurial and _temporary_ as Joseph Kavinsky.

Swan is who he goes to on nights like this, when his father won’t stop calling and he’s cold no matter what he drinks, what he puts up his nose, how hard he digs his nails into his own skin, how fast he whips the Evo through the snowy streets.

Swan’s door is the one he beats down, silent and loathing himself for _needing it,_ Swan is the one who gives him a look like he knows _exactly_ what K needs, the kind of look that sets K’s teeth on edge. He hates being transparent. He hates being human. He hates needing things.

~~(He hates being alive.)~~

Swan knows what he’s doing. There’s a reason Skov likes being fucked by Swan the best, and it’s not because he’s such a great fucking _conversationalist._ It’s because he can pin you to a bed with one hand before you even know you’ve been pinned, because he’s so fucking good at finding the spots on your neck that make you _helpless_ with his lips, his _teeth,_ because his fingers are so fucking _thick_ and so skillful he can make you _cry_ on them. Make you starving for something _more,_ and K takes a shamefully short time to get to that point, both his wrists pinned to his lower back and his ass propped up by a couple of pillows, half-smothering in Swan’s duvet.

“You gon’ say _please,_ baby?” Swan burrs, _mellow_ like he’s smoked a whole bag and not like he’s got Joseph Kavinsky face-down-ass-up in his dorm bed.

K is _not._

Swan curls his fingers and rubs over the thin inner skin of K’s left wrist, the one he broke years ago. It healed tender, and Swan _knows_ what a feathery light touch over the spot does to him.

“Fuckin’ _fuck_ you,” K snarls, still unwilling, voice broken open and savage and _pleading._ He fucking _wants._ He wants it so bad.

Swan smacks his ass loud enough that his neighbors will no doubt have heard; K’s vision whites out with it, with the force of Swan’s palm cracking down over where his legs are spread, barely catching his balls but _still._

“Please,” he spits out, and he’s not going to say it louder or go further. He’s already fucking sick with having said it the first time, even if he’s also so fucking _relieved_ to ask for it. To admit it.

Swan doesn’t require anything else, just nudges his thighs further apart and pushes in, in, _in,_ cock fucking huge. He’s the only person that’s been inside K since Ilya-

he doesn’t think about that. He just shakes apart in Swan’s arms, lets himself be hauled up so his back is pressed to Swan’s clothed chest, so Swan can suck a hickey into the nape of his neck.

He comes like that, crying on it, thighs sprawled open and Swan still pounding away until he’s done. Swan tosses him a hoodie when he keeps shivering, lets him tuck himself up under the covers in the bed. Doesn’t comment when he’s still shaking so hard he’s practically seizing with it, teeth clenched so they won’t chatter.

(He fucking hates this. He wishes the whole world would fucking burn to the ground. He wishes he didn’t have to be Joseph Kavinsky. He wishes it was all over.)

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


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